Watch in Awe
by Lapin raspikurkku
Summary: Sometimes, Superman gets trapped as Clark Kent. Watch Darry Curtis interact with himself, his brothers, and those around him. Set postnovel.


_A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR: Hello! Years ago I wrote "Nothing Gold Can Stay" as Trip McNeely. I've returned to write this. _

_The focus is on Darry, exploring his relationships with himself, his brothers, his friends, his ex-girlfriend and his parents. No added sisters, no resurrection of Johnny and Dally, no new girl on the block who wins their hearts over. I promise._

CHAPTER ONE – Curious, Indeed

Fog engulfed everything, forcing it down until it gagged, only to vomit up further. Maybe the clouds were hung over, slumming it with the rest of earthly creatures. It sure didn't look like Heaven here either way. Tulsa never looked better than when no one had to actually see it. As if this dust bowl was some unreleased art exhibition that required a white blanket to preserve its sacred hype.

Some may wander accidentally, but Darry Curtis walked with purpose. That he knew. Only a few more steps and he'd be that much closer to his Ford. That Ford would take him closer to home, where he'd prepare dinner, check his brother's homework, then attempt to sleep. All until he awoke the next day, where the process would repeat all over again. Still, Darry didn't think that far in advance anymore. It only depressed him, and he'd end up lying in bed all night staring at the ceiling, trying to tune out the whispering of tumbleweed and other sounds of nothing happening in the background. He wouldn't be at his tip-top performance the next day, he'd lose his job, he'd lose his brothers. That simply wasn't an option.

Essentially, he'd fail everyone around him. There was too much riding on him for that to occur. So it never would happen.

Darry fished into his jeans, the standard issue ones he'd wear to work roofing houses, digging for his keys. An ache dwelled in his lower back, but he'd long learned to ignore such trivialities. Even with the fog, his pale blue eyes cut their way through. Once those eyes were the ocean, imposing yet inviting depth. Now they were the reflection of ice that sank the Titanic. Once upon a time they could've been the Tropics. Now they were simply the Arctic. Even now the world parted before them. Here comes Darry Curtis…nothing more than a part-time roofer, part nightwatchman, fulltime disappointment. Who knows? Maybe by the end of this long month, he'd have yet another impressive title to add to his name.

Here lies Darry Curtis, could've been slash would've been slash should've been.

In his mind he ran through what had been done, what needed to be done, what could wait until he awoke the next morning. He checked each one off as he flipped through the keys. If Darry weren't so fatigued, he might've actually smirked at what lay in his large, callused palm. A house key, something never used in the Curtis household. Their door always remained unlocked, always a revolving door of the greased, leather clad hooligans the brothers ran amok with. There was no closing time; if they didn't want to go home, yes, they could stay there. To Darry, it made sense; the last thing he wanted was to read how one of them had gone out and gotten themselves killed, all over a fight with the parents. So their door remained open, their couch prepared for any visitors. Maintaining that rule wasn't only practical…it was the only way to keep Dad still alive.

Then again, Darry reflected, that rule couldn't do a thing for Dally. His hyena body crashing under the unforgiving street light. Only in memories, everything's sepia, so it didn't matter that Dally's hair had been blonde or his blood was vivid red. It hadn't been that long ago when holes had spilled through him. 18-year-old Dallas Winston, formerly living, now reduced to nothing more than a vacated body. Kicking and screaming he left behind the rest of the world under that pale street light. Then again, nothing really could've saved Dallas Winston.

Dally's dead. That's a fact, indisputable. But even to someone like Darry, it still hurt to think about, even if it had been as predictable as the sun rising or the chime of an ice cream truck.

"Darry?"

Say what you will, but Dally had always been a man of his own destiny. For that, Darry gave him respect. Tip your hat, lower your gaze. Perhaps he envied his fallen comrade. How easy to simply _not care_.

"Darry!" A voice called out to him through the fog, but with no body to attach it to. Darry kept moving, without turning around. He was of his own odyssey, one in which he'd never return to Ithaca. Penelope and Odysseus lay buried, not far from Dally, or Johnny Cade either for that matter. This voice did not relent, and only repeated his name, echoing throughout the streets.

Don't think about Johnny ei--

A sharp pain, no longer the ache from a hard day's work, but rather from impact. It surprised Darry, causing him to stop in his scuffed shoed tracks. That pre-revelation chill set in, surfing lazily across his tightened stomach. Muscles that he only put to use now to fight or to work. Slowly, he turned his feet clockwise, his body moving with him. An oblong shaped rock lay at his feet. Crouching he picked up the rock and stared at it intensely. The light shine speckled throughout indicated quartz. That at least he remembered from the unit on Geology he took back in high school.

His eyes flickered upwards, surveying the scene. Still fog, a green painted bench for a bus line that hadn't worked in years, standing guard. It was from this bench, out of the fog, where She emerged. Darry stood watch as the woman with the blonde Bettie Page haircut took a moment to merely study him, waiting. There was nothing subtle in his movements, but everything in hers; the way her hips curved under her fur coat. His jaw set. Darry stared. The click-clack of her boots echoed as they ravaged the ground. They made the sound of ticking time bombs as she drew closer.

"Darry." Heavy Swedish accent, a familiar smiled curved upon her painted lips. Just a tinge of party dress pink lingered upon them. Never did Darry's eyes stray from her, enwrapped by the fog and her draped fur coat. A type of present no one was expecting, a gag gift buried in the back. Still, she was packaged perfectly. Her eyes, intense, weird, too intense, cut out Darry's outline. They were the wings of hummingbirds, darting about, never satisfied. Upon hitting Darry's cold gaze they merely stuck, incapable of freeing themselves. All he could do was jam his hands into his pockets. Yet no matter how hard he tried…he couldn't break himself free.

Those lips no longer seemed content with sudden long-lost recognition. "Have you forgotten me?" she asked, her pleading breath becoming one with all around them. It wasn't even cold. Darry continued to pour into her. Was this glass half full or half empty? Nervously her hands stroked her fur coat. Long luxurious fingers, befitting of an organist, a conductor, hand cream model. They were crowned with rings, wrists bedecked with bracelets that slipped their way from her sleeves to reveal themselves. To say, hello, Darry. Don't you remember me? How they flirted and glittered upon her clear hands.

Hands that once made their way through his hair. Certainly not the hands of a roofer's woman.

"Veronika," he finally released. The name hung in the air, entangling its limbs with breath and the rest of Tulsa. Something felt wrong deep within. And then he nodded. "It's been a long time."

XXX

Darry, 17, scuffed his shoes against the carpeting of the ski lodge. The mounted moose head stared down upon him, accusatorily. Funny. Even inanimate objects tend to judge him. But it's because the moose head knew he was just a fake. A phony, as some rich spoiled kid from New York might call him. Darry, age 17, did not make eye contact with the moose head; there was no need to apologize for his presence here. Skiing was a passion of Darry's. Anything that required physical skill was. He had just as much right to be here, even if his car wasn't sparkling nor his jacket washed and crisply ironed (like Rich's or Paul's). These were his friends (17-year-old Darry kept repeating it in his head, so that maybe, just maybe, he'd convince himself in believing that he'd escaped Tulsa).

This would be the best years of his life. Already he fulfilled that oft-spoken prophecy.

His parents were thrilled he'd been invited along. Ecstatic, even. To the point where his father had spent his paycheck on buying Darry ski equipment. It'll come in use down the line, he'd assured his eldest son, patting him on the back proudly as he was one to do. Think of it as an investment. It's nothing, really. Just enjoy the gift. Darry's father's eyes had sparkled, the way Sodapop's would when he'd spot his favorite horse in the whole wild world or that pretty blonde girl. As Darry tore off the excess wrapping, he swore he'd make it up to his parents. One day…he'd make them proud just yet.

Still, guilt emanated within him. Reflecting back to all those he left behind in dusty Tulsa, selling out his real friends. Darry agonizingly scraped the heel of his shoes down the carpet. Warmth emanated from within his soles. Best shoes in the stores, Dad had informed him. Comparing all the others' shoes, lining them up within his mind's eye, Darry knew that the briefly lowered eyes, hands running over the laces his father had exhibited really meant: best I could afford. But to Darry…they were the best. They always would be.

"You OK?" Rich asked him, his hand still firmly clamped within his girlfriend's. "You're looking rather peaky." Only Rich would use such an out-of-date term like that. Paul would've found a hipper way of phrasing it. Perhaps that old-fashioned charm was what attracted his girlfriend to Rich, Darry reflected. Rich's girlfriend gazed at Darry lazily, then up Rich's nostrils, to admire every nose hair. She giggled slightly, her ear so close to his chest that she could feel it burst. Richest Catholic girl on the block. Even the crucifix around her neck glittered.

"Just want to ski, that's all," Darry stated bluntly, taking a swig of 7-Up (served in Pilsener glasses, imported straight from Czechoslovakia, courtesy of Paul's elaborate father). Before the trip he'd had a brand new haircut. He was the only one of his brothers to actually walk to the candy-striped parlor, where the chatty middle-aged women would giggle over his hair. At the time he'd tried to tell them, you should see my brothers' hair, and had winked, just to send them in a tailspin. Bring them here, they'd called as he slapped a tip on the counter and left. Their talons raking over the change. We'll have a ball with them!

"Christ, Darrel," Paul barked, affectionately nudging his friend in the stomach, "we just got here. We'll have plenty of time to ski. Try mingling with the dames a bit first." No sooner had Paul attempted to escape than Darry had him in a headlock, messing his semi-Beatle hair beyond repair. That was the goal, anyhow.

"Just trying to knock some sense into you," Darry laughed, and it rose to his eyes. How young, how carefree. Neither allowed their roughhousing to escalate. There was never any need to fight. No one knew the truth about Darry. It just never arose in conversation, Darry had insisted himself. His fingers ran themselves through his newly shorn hair. All the girls would coo. This he was certain of.

As Darry put his lips to the glass, tipping his head back, only to find nothing waited for him. All drained. Defeated, but not for long, Darry stood up and stretched his legs. "I'm getting myself a drink." No one would dare ask him to take orders, so Rich's girlfriend remarked softly, "I'm really aching for a Coke right now…" Her voice trailed into Rich's ski jacket, and he only gazed at either Paul or Darry, his dull hazel eyes pleading. The new toy phase, how no one could bare to be separated from the pear of their heart.

It was Paul who said, "I'll get you that, suddenly I'm thirsty as well." Standing to their full heights, the two football players departed the couch. On their way to the mini-bar, they occasionally intermingled with the others who'd joined them. All celebrities in their own mind, all equally demanding of their attention.

"We'll see about that on the mountains," Darry laughed to a linebacker as he and Paul finally reached the bar counter. Leaning over, Darry placed the glasses down on the counter. His muscled arms left an impression, but as soon as he lifted his arms they disappeared.

"7-Up and a Coke, please." The deep creases of the bartender's skin and the way his furry upper lip flopped in surrender over the rest of his face only informed Darry that he'd had enough of serving teenagers who didn't earn their money. Those very same teens that were perfectly content in spending it on all the raging fads and frivolous ski trips now roamed these halls. Such as the one Darry was on now. Pang of guilt filled his aorta, and he tried his best to swallow that taste of bile. Instead, he tried to satisfy himself with glancing out the window, a breathtaking landscape deserving to be immortalized in paint. Ponyboy would've dug this, he thought. They'd make snow angels and then he and Soda would try to gang up on Darry and pelt him with their snowy handcrafts. Or maybe Ponyboy would just be content to sketch the whole sight. He was really easily satisfied like that. A smile found its way to Darry's lips. One day, they'll all come out on their own ski trip…

Slightly stupid laughter filled the ski lodge. Glancing next to him, Darry noticed Paul leaning in real close to this girl swaddled in sealskin. Oh sure, she looked the pristine part, chastity white gloves lay at her glass beside her. But Darry noticed she wore leather boots, the kind he'd only seen in magazines at the drug store. Of course there was no skiing hat anywhere within sight. No, that would ruin the image. Rather, a gypsy blue scarf cradled her blonde mane. A small crowd had gathered.

"So is that really true?" Paul asked eagerly. "What they say, about Swedes…?"

She cocked an eyebrow, one that had been perfectly tweezed, then spoke with a slight accent. "Oh, but of course. It's just one big, um…what is the word I look for…" Perfectly clipped nails tapped against the glass of her drink, something murkily unrecognizable.

"_Sex party_!" she snapped her fingers, nearly spilling her drink all over her perfect gloves. But Darry noticed, it wasn't really as spontaneous as she'd like to appear. "Yes, everyone has sex with everyone over there. That's why we never entered World War 2 – we were too busy sleeping around!" The rest, even Paul, found this hilarious. Table pounding riotous good humor, two thumbs up. They were her choir. Ever coquettish, Veronika, age 16 (actually 16 ½, but all aspiring actresses lie about their age) brought her glass to her lips, sipping slightly. A perfect pause in her routine. Secretly, her eyes met Darry's over the rim of the glass. Eyelashes curled like midsummer dragonflies. Quickly he glanced away to the counter top.

"Just think," Veronika said, her every move scripted as she leaned closer to Paul, as if whispering to him quite the personal secret, "if you had not saved us, we would be having to lay with _Germans_. Nazi regalia is really limiting." Everything fell from the lipstick of her mouth perfectly. Then she straightened her back, the proper lady, surveying the room briefly.

"Tell us more," they encouraged. Only Darry remained silent, watching her. Paul's fingers searched for a key beneath her seal skin coat, winding her up with his strong arms from football practice. How she'd perform! For even a tin nightingale is better than nothing.

"In Sweden, we do not have zoos," she commented, pretending this was all new. Circus monkey tap dancing for anyone who looked its way. Those rich reveled hands clasped so quickly that it nearly sent Paul for a tailspin. "No. In Sweden, every house is equipped with a…um…menagerie." The word menagerie rolled off her red carpet tongue. For posterity's sake she sipped from her glass, her lips delicately savoring the post-swallow atmosphere.

"It was terrible the day the wolves broke through their cages. We came home to find the remains of our butler staining the rug." She sighed, melodramatically. This had all been rehearsed. Cocking her head, she continued on her way, leaning closer to Paul: "And do you know what we did?"

"What?" he asked, wide eyed. Hanging on every word. Every. Single. Word.

"We rubbed their nose in it and said, 'BAD DOG!'" She hollered, and giggled sweetly, "More drink, please!" Those surrounding her applauded her performance. Roses would've encircled her feet, modern day Black Plague anti-virus. This wasn't Hollywood, but it was the next best thing.

"Man, you sure are something," Paul grinned, the way statues carved eons ago would. Now came the introduction. "I'm Paul, this here's Darrel." Through out all of this, Darry was at a loss for words. The drinks lay in his clutches limply, dreamlike. Out of the corner of his eye, he could've sworn the moose head stuck its tongue out. But maybe it was just an optical illusion.

"Veronika Ljungberg." She held her regal hand. They liked her. They really liked her. What a rainbow high she'd reached.

"I don't believe you," Darry said.

The words hung in the air, frozen. Slowly they settled upon the ground, piled atop the rest of Veronika's story. Darry's jaw was lock, set, ace smoking. The chorus merely stared at him, at a loss for words. But Veronika merely picked at her clean ivory teeth with a toothpick, appraising Darry. A shapely eyebrow, cocked, ready to snuff Darry with just one trigger.

"And how would you know?" How dare she, Miss Veronika Ljungberg, be put upon trial? The lighting would capture her perfectly, her lips a demure shade of innocence. Why your honor, I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. (But deep down, this prosecution slightly excited her. Never had anyone questioned her before).

Darry shook his head. From what he'd read in books…she had to be lying. The chorus, with Paul the conductor, merely watched between the two. All Darry could mutter was, "I'm hitting the slopes." As he turned to leave, her vixen eyes never left him. They left their mark on his back the way surgical scars would.

XXX

Rat a tat tat. At first Darry tried to keep up with the rhythm of her neatly manicured fingertips upon the table. Between all the years between them, the Dairy Queen booth seemed just a bit too captive. Perhaps this was past his bedtime. What he would've given for a back rub right now. Surely he pulled a muscle while at work, he always did. Pride always arrives before the fashionably late fall. Just concentrate on the pattern the speckled table made. It was easier than to look at Veronika in her sunshine shaded glory.

Across from him, Veronika sat, sucking away on a boysenberry milkshake. Occasionally her head would pop up to survey the setting. No agents in sight. But one could never tell. They could just be undercover, scouting guerilla style. This is what she comforted herself with.

"You can't be real," Darry stated, shaking his head slightly. On that note, he took a French fry and placed it between his teeth, gnawing away. "You just can't be."

"I was a waitress prior to this," replied Veronika rather clinically. "Honest-to-God. All actresses have to start off as waitresses. It's a rule, I think. There was this girl I was sharing my flat with, her name was…Jan? Jan. Anyway, I guess she couldn't take it. I came home one day and found she'd slashed her wrists. Blood was everywhere, all over her clothes…what a mess…"

The waiter, suffering the ultimate humiliation of roller skates, ventured over. Just like Darry, this waiter wanted to go home. It was clear in the way he slouched that he took no interest in his own safety as he nearly collided into another booth. His only purpose was to serve. Is everything going smoothly, he inquired. No, Darry wanted to confess. But Darry just didn't say things like that. The two ordered a piece of chocolate ice cream cake, and so the waiter, now fulfilled, vanished.

The urine-shaded light created a fuzzy halo around Veronika. Even in such a drab place as this, Darry mused; she could've just as easily been a baroness from olden times, a diva of no compare. It almost made the uneasy nausea within his taut gut vanish. Almost.

Briefly her boots touched Darry, but both skirted back to their neutral zones. If Veronika had noted this, her mood certainly did not show it.

"Where did you get that cut?" she asked, leaning across the table so that her breasts grazed the counter. A gentle hand raked what few locks obscured Darry's wound. Suddenly it occurred to Darry what Veronika was inquiring about. The soreness around his eye refused to retreat. Rather it stood its ground. The look on his boss' face when he'd arrived to work the next morning. Feeling of mud under his shoes, rain pelting his back like BB bullets. The night Dally and Johnny died.

"It's uh, what would you say…'tuff'?" Now Veronika had settled back onto her side of the booth, a hand cupping an invisible bubble parked just outside her mouth. This remark appeared funny to her, so much so that a giggle slipped through her fingertips.

"What have you been up to?" croaked out Darry. His lips felt chapped, even though it hadn't been cold. Maybe it was a psychological thing.

Suddenly Veronika found the silver napkin holder very fascinating. All under the false pretense that she was admiring her own reflection, a tug of war between foreign exotic diva meets hip Vargas girl, ripped straight from film stills and pages of magazines. Clipped fingernails, a clear sheen, picked away at the chipped silver plating.

"Turns out the 'Sexual Revolution' wasn't so thrilling after all," she commented softly.

For the first time too much silence hung in the air, so she eagerly clapped her fingers, waving away any sort of problems. Whitewashed it all away, sandblasted to the Nth degree. Over her shoulder Veronika shot a daring stare at the jukebox. "Oh, I don't like this song," she sighed. "Maybe next decade will be better…"

"Why are you here?" Darry bluntly asked. He leaned forward. Just the facts, ma'am. Nothing else. That was all he could afford to want now. If he had a fedora, he'd tip it right now, assess her from just behind the rim, but it'd been months, years maybe, since Darry had sat through a film. How long had it really been?

Veronika paused, then laughed, joyfully, just like the old days. "Well, that'd be no fun if I told you right off the bat, now would it?"

"Stop kidding around," he insisted. For now, he was being polite, Mr. Nice Guy. This wouldn't last long, he told himself. Not even for her.

"Maybe I'm just some sort of guardian angel." Veronika nodded. Here came the Anna Karenina lurking underneath the fur and charm bracelet. "Supposed to teach you a life lesson, moral of the story, that song and dance. I'm just one big metaphor. Don't mind me."

"You used to sing really well," replied Darry fondly, suddenly glassy eyed.

"For weeks I waited outside the Factory," Veronika pleaded, nervously tugging on her bracelets. She stifled a sneeze. Must be dust in the air. "I sat through forty minutes of Robert Indiana devouring a peach, and I can promise you that bitch Nico couldn't do that." Muttering to herself: "_Fitta_."

A shiver was shared between the two of them. For a moment, they made the most intense eye contact. Both stood at the grave of love.

XXX

Down they skied. Isosceles mountain pointing directly to the skies above. Darry, moving faster and faster, wind whipping him repeatedly in the face. A tree here, a bush there, none of this proved a problem. Over his shoulder Paul pursued. They'd long since lost Rich, who halfway through had given up on the race. It was time better spent with his girlfriend, after all.

But Paul, he could never turn down a competition.

Power surged through Darry's limbs. This was his rush. It was what kept cold breath in his lungs and blood rushing to his brain. The most amazing machine of all was the human body. To think, he could merely turn his feet and suddenly, a different direction. To shut his eyes and the world vanished right before him. But those steely ices remained vigilantly wide and alive.

Out of nowhere, a rock was birthed from the incumbent snow. All within a split second, flashing before his very eyes. Down below the chorus watched, hitting their highest notes with expletives and "Does he see that?!" Nearly touching skis, Paul had the fortunate luck of avoiding the rock, nearly diving. But still his million-dollar head fit neatly above his million dollar shoulders. There would be no early demise for Paul Holden, his mother could rest easy at night.

But Darry did not see it coming. Rather, he braced for impact, his knees steadied. At the last moment, he twisted his ankles. This should've landed him in a heap of broken bones and useless flesh. His head should've rolled off, right at their feet to kick about. Blood should've dotted the horizon, Faust's own personal signature.

But Superman doesn't die. The hero always has to live.

Awkwardly, yet nevertheless managed, he lifted through the air. For a brief moment, he flew the air like on a trapeze. In the eyes of all, he'd surpassed the Wright Brothers. Deftly, he landed, a tad uneasy and shaky, but still holding supporting his colossus frame.

The chorus, all Madras and miniskirts, soared: "How did he do that?!" All would award him 10s.

Veronika, still age 16 (1/2), was already outside. Never before had her eyes widened so much as when she saw Darry racing down. Not even in all her years wandering had she seen something as stellar as him. Her knees buckled, and shouted at the top of her lungs into the newly fallen snow, "Darry Curtis, you're the _coolest_!"

Breathless. Grab hold before it flutters off.

XXX

The Dairy Queen only shrank, but Veronika continued to grow. Barely did the booth contain her giant stocking legs, her monster sized hands draped across the table. The luminosity of her blonde locks, the yellow dress with the high collar, all of it nearly blinding Darry: a giant sun trapping him in orbit. It took all of his self-restraint not to check her milkshake to see if a tag with "Drink Me" had been attached.

"Here is your order," the waiter dribbled. Chin met the back of his hand, wiping himself clean. Just a few more hours. Two plates of chocolate cake lay within their grasp. At first, Darry made no attempt to dig in. Suddenly lost his appetite, going the way of geese migrating to vacation drunkenly in Rio.

Veronika, straddling the booth, leaned in, delicately manipulating the fork to cut off pleasant bite-sized mouthfuls. Before she applied the fork to her lips, she said, "I heard…about your parents." Slowly spoken, like a karaoke machine rattling off lyrics.

Darry yawned, loudly; "Work was long today. I'm pretty sure I pulled a muscle." Cracking his neck, a pale imitation of bones breaking. Bodies strewed on the side of a road, amongst car debris, flashed through his mind. He wasn't supposed to have that much of an active imagination. Ponyboy was supposed to be the dreamer. Just stick to the facts, ma'am. This newest development was quite disturbing.

"…they were good people," Veronika said, her hands now in her lap. They smoothed out the wrinkles in her acidic dress. What once were valleys and mountains became merely streamlined doldrums. All thanks to the power of those fingers. Maybe she should be the construction worker.

"Yeah…" Darry murmured, crossing his muscular arms on the table. How they bulged against his black T-shirt. Muscles. If Veronika stared hard enough, maybe mailed in enough proofs of purchases to receive X-ray specs, she'd still see the red and blue S underneath it all. "They were," he interrupted, making no eye contact. He too found the silver lining perfection. She nodded. This would be the most she could excavate.

Taking a bite, Veronika scrunched up her face, and sighed so disappointedly. Her fork dangled limply from her grip, like a silver geisha fan. "Your recipe was better…" she whispered.

XXX

Two people, one male, one female, sat upon a bench underneath a pine tree. Red-and-black flannel shirt was draped between the two of them as a ceremonial robe. In Tulsa one didn't need such a shirt, but here was not back home. Here, snow fell and 17-year-old Darry wasn't Soc or grease, but merely 17-year-old Darry Curtis. If 16-year-old Veronika had pressed her nose, she'd inhale his scent to find it was just like the tree: pine, strong, steady. Both were still alive.

Snow collected at Darry's feet, and digging his toes in further, they almost provided warmth. But his firm arm scooped Veronika, so that they sat side by side. Her pink tongue darted out, so as to catch a snowflake. Success was hers, and licking her lips she grinned up at Darry. Snowflakes already collected in his brand new hair. Nature's ornaments clung to his eyelashes. But he refused to close his eyes for even a second. Something drew him to her, akin to sticking his tongue upon a frozen pole. Don't pull back.

The sky bled, dripping its heavenly paint all over the earthly canvas. Lazily, Veronika draped her arm over Darry's thigh and soothingly inhaled. Deep down she could feel Darry's pulse. How it felt like a kiss inside their chests. For some reason that she was yet to understand, this comforted her. Right now, she could drift right off to sleep, substituting jumping sheep with his heartbeat.

Darry paused, then asked, "What's Sweden really like?" Rarely had he ventured past Tulsa or the neighboring region before. To think an entire world awaited him gave Darry an excited rush, like before a game or something. Upon this question, Veronika sat up, wiping snowflakes off her delicate face. No longer did it appear that indifferent pose she'd donned earlier.

Gazing out at the landscape before the two of them, two teenagers in the middle of nowhere going nowhere, she cocked her head, resting it upon his shoulder. Her hot chocolate breath ushered, "Really, everywhere is the same." Then she sighed, straightening up but still absorbing his body heat. Comfortingly, his hand rubbed her back through the flannel shirt. But now Veronika's eyes were open, and her arm wandered to his shoulder, touching Darry before her. This sent a small shiver down his spine. He sure felt real. Even as darkness emerged, she could still verify his presence before her. This brought a small curved bow to her lips.

"I wonder what we get to see on the other side of the mountain," she said out loud. The two stared out. They had no clue, but at the moment, that didn't really matter. Youth provided security, and they had all the time in the world.

XXX

The further adventures of robotic boys from space flashed across the small television screen. Images danced, reflecting against anyone's eyes that watched. At the table sat Sodapop Curtis, DX shirt disheveled and unbuttoned. Melting caramel eyes raked across the room, having no particular destination as they passed Steve Randle across the table, then the unopened door. Noise from the television continued to blabber on, deep within the background of the house. But Soda's mind was elsewhere. Just focus on the door.

Boots propped upon the table, Steve Randle quizzically stared at his best friend across the table. His fingers, still dirty with oil and car grease, tapped anxiously upon the top of the table. Dirty scuffed shoes scuffing the wooden floor, rattling out a new dialect of Morse code. Maybe to Evie, listening with her ear pressed to the floor plenty of blackened streets away. P-L-E-A-S-E-F-O-R-G-I-V-E-M-E…

"They'll be home soon enough, so are you gonna play or what?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed. It gave him an older appearance. Strangle him with a tie and slap a beer in his hands and there would sit the elder Mr. Randle. No one would ever mention this to Steve; he was hostile enough.

Sodapop nodded, taking another card from the pile. "Yeah," he said, then quickly, "it ain't normal for me to be the first one home, that's all." That was the truth. Typically Ponyboy was holed up somewhere reading, or drawing, or just daydreaming. As for Darry, work was long and never-ending. But rarely did it run this late.

Then Sodapop put on his prize-winning grin. "If I'd known Darry wouldn't be home, I would've stayed out a bit later." Already his feet were tapping on the ground, clashing rhythms with Steve's. Sodapop ran a hand through his silky golden mane. He suppressed a sigh, trying to divert his energies elsewhere. This game of cards was proving a poor distraction for Sodapop. So far he'd inadvertently flashed his hand to Steve at least twice, glancing past the complicated swirls of his best friend's hair to the door behind him.

"Your ears are turning red, thinking something dirty?" smirked Steve, his thin cobra lips coiled. On that, Sodapop pulled out his pack of cigarettes, tossing them onto the table for Steve to light up. In unison both applied the cigarette to mouth, struck fire, then inhaled deeply.

Exhaling, Steve continued, "We could go down to Jay's, meet some girls or something…" Despite this harmless suggestion, there was no real intention of leaving though. Granted, Darry went easier on Sodapop going out late, but mostly because…

_I'm the screw-up,_Sodapop thought to himself. It's why he couldn't pass any of his classes and why he dropped out of school and his parents died and Sandy…Sandy…

"What about Evie?" Two-Bit Mathews asked pointblank from the floor. It was a commercial break, so no longer did the television hold his rapt gaze. Rarely did Sodapop see Two-Bit so intensely focused, except maybe when he was trying to pull off some master kleptomaniac accomplishment. Two-Bit's leaner build and shit-eating smile may have kept him from being one of the fiercer fighters in their gang, but while his fingers did not often make fists, they certainly could not help themselves from swiping candy bars and switchblades.

"Nah," Steve said, narrowing his ashen eyes. "Evie and I are on the outs this week." Must be Thursday. By tomorrow Band-Aids would be applied, hands would be held, kissed to make it all better. If there was any stability in Steve's life, it was that the sun would rise, and he and Evie would reconcile. Maybe.

Shuffling his thoughts clean, Sodapop glanced up from the game to genially ask, "What are you watching, Two-Bit?"

"Astro Boy," Two-Bit Mathews responded to no one in particular, idly scratching at his impressive sideburns. A swig of beer quenched any further explanations, settling easily down the back of his throat and into his stomach.

Steve stretched so that the bottom of his shirt kissed the button of his jeans. "Looks stupid," he interjected lazily. Sodapop knew that Steve didn't really mean this. Sometimes there was just so much bottled within Steve he overflowed, the way a drink from the vending machine would if Sodapop shook it too hard. It's why Sodapop could never really take anything Steve said too seriously. Steve was his buddy, his wingman. Besides, where would he be without his best friend in the whole world? Not a question the 16-year-old had any desire to discover.

The door creaked open. In strode Darry's large frame, dropping off his metal lunchbox at the entrance. Darry shot the assembled group a glance, then the TV screen, and asked, "What's this?"

"Only the greatest show ever," Two-Bit responded, downing the last of his beer bottle. Some of it sloppily spilled onto his fingers, so he licked them clean. "Astro Boy. Though really, if he had to square off with Jonny Quest, that could get kinda ugly…" Somewhere in this sentence Two-Bit giggled to himself, most likely imagining the duel.

"I still don't get how that Indian kid's related to them," Steve replied, propping his bored face within his palm. All of this was lost upon Darry. There was hardly any time in his life for rest, let alone television. Deciding a snack would be perfect, Darry made his way to the refrigerator.

"What happened to Mickey?" Sodapop asked, hoping to keep the conversation going. He swung his chair so that his stomach pressed against the back of it.

"Well, Mickey's classic," explained Two-Bit, standing to his full lanky height only to collapse onto the couch. "It's not fair to compare the two, you know? They're two totally different kinds of tuff. Like blondes and brunettes..." This caused Two-Bit's familiar grin to spread across his face. It lit up his countenance the way neon lights hailed stores.

"No, Astro Boy is not_tuff_," Steve insisted indignantly. Most likely arguing just for the sake of arguing, Sodapop thought to himself. Lately this has occurred even more recently, ever since the night Johnny and Dally…since the night they had…

"Take that back!" Two-Bit insisted, sitting up on the couch. If only he could apply such passion to his classes…then maybe he'd move on to the senior year, and graduate before the age of 21. Odds would be in his favor, him being a 17 ½ junior, but it'd be doubtful to find a teacher that would accept arguing the merits of a Japanese animated character as A material. Or even a B.

Shaking himself of this, Sodapop excused himself to join his older brother at the refrigerator. Propping himself on the counter, Sodapop studied Darry carefully. Yes, Darry always had that stressed, aged look to him, someone who'd accepted way too much responsibility too quickly, but something lurked beneath the icy eyes.

"How come so late, I thought you got out of work earlier?" asked Sodapop curiously. Carelessly he draped his arms against the cabinets, his fingers looped within the handles. At first he'd open them slightly, then close them, then open, hanging there, a puppet of the kitchen.

"Where's Ponyboy?" Darry automatically asked. Now it had dawned on him that he was not with the others. This was a school night, he should be at home and getting the full-recommended amount of sleep he needed. Maybe Darry should be preparing more fish for him, it's supposed to be brain food. Or at least, that's what he'd read.

"He went for a run," Sodapop assured him. "Ever since he missed all those meets, he's been trying to train himself, get in shape again. He's real serious about it." Why would anyone want to go running when they could get behind a car, or a horse, was beyond Sodapop's realm of understanding. So he gave up on it abruptly.

"No," Darry sighed. Suddenly nothing in the refrigerator would satisfy Darry. The white plastic door closed. "No, it's too late for him to be running. He had all afternoon…"

"You still didn't answer my question." Sodapop cocked an eyebrow, paying homage to the arguing Two-Bit just next door, who'd moved himself to the table to continue his heated argument with Steve. By now Steve was leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms and just blotting Two-Bit out. Just like his father, or Evie in one of her 'dangerous moods', or anything that disagreed with the Steve Randle Code of Life.

Seated upon the countertop, a prince amongst his greaser subjects, Sodapop leaned forward, his carefree face light but intrigued. Darry did not heed to look at his caramel-eyed brother. Fur coats with Vargas haircuts…once upon a time, they'd been together. Those golden days weren't here anymore.

"Veronika stopped by," Darry replied, his voice as casual as he could muster. But while he'd once been the top of his class and football captain, never was he a credible liar. Especially not with Sodapop, of all the people in the world. Darry merely tensely flexed his muscles, staring out the window of their kitchen to see a silhouette sway past it.

Suddenly Sodapop's eyes widened. The cigarette dangling from his lips fell into the sink, diffused by dishwater. It all dawned on him. "You're kidding. Really? You mean your--"

"PONYBOY!" Two-Bit shouted excitedly, standing up so fast the chair fell backwards. There in the doorway stood Ponyboy, the youngest Curtis. His artist's hands clasped his thighs, greedily sucking in deep breaths. Sweat trickled down his still maturing face. Nodding, he waved to Two-Bit, then politely nodded to Steve. Acknowledging this, Steve nodded back, his arms still crossed, knee balancing the rest of him against the table.

Beside the refrigerator, Darry collected a deep breath, his worker hands wiping his face clean. Clark Kent at least had the mystique of dodging into a phone booth to transform. There was no glamour in Darry's role. None at all. Slowly, he turned.

"Where have you been?" Darry asked, trying to keep his voice level. In the past, he'd been too tightly wound-up. From what he'd been instructed, from all the books he'd read on his lunch breaks, it was best to approach the situation calmly. Make no accusations; it'll only startle those you're taking care of.

Ponyboy straightened himself, then looked Darry in the eye. "Running," he said emotionlessly. There was neither fear nor arrogance in his eyes. It was just the straight, honest truth.

Darry nodded. No preemptive strike, no aggressive moves. They were just two pawns moving towards the same queen. "It's a bit late," he commented slowly, choosing his words as carefully as he could. "_Maybe_ start running earlier in the afternoon. It's a school night, after all, and you need all the rest you can get." Within his mind, Darry braced himself, preparing to be fought once more with all Ponyboy had.

But Ponyboy stared at him, then slowly nodded. "OK. Whatever." This concession nearly winded Darry, sent him spiraling into the refrigerator to leave quite the dent. Usually there'd at least be some opposition. Ponyboy could be the mouthiest kid he knew. (Ponyboy was his brother, only he could say that.)

Before Darry could ask any further questions, the floor barked. Glancing to where Ponyboy had entered, Two-Bit shouted, "Ha, look, it's a dog!" Behind the screen door sat a Corgi, tongue wagging, brightly barking now that he'd attracted an audience. Knowing he'd captured their attention, he placed a paw up on the screen and excitedly barked once more, his short frame swaying.

"He followed me the entire way," Ponyboy replied, staring out at everyone in turn. "I kind of like him, actually." His hands darted for their pockets, and he slouched. By returning to his usual pose, it'd appear as if he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary. Sliding off the countertop, Sodapop made his way to the door and opened it, allowing the dog to slip in. Noticing the first one closest to him, he began to rub between Sodapop's legs. Kneeling, Sodapop began to scratch the dog's belly, combing him lovingly.

"He's kind of cute," Sodapop admitted, his handsome face lighting up. "Aren't you, boy? Who's a good boy?" Petting his soft fur almost led Sodapop back to the horse of his, or was once. Mickey Mouse. Where was he now? The idea that he might've been turned to glue only made Sodapop sick to his stomach, but none of this could be read within his actions. His hands kept petting the dog. Dogs couldn't care less whether the hand that fed was grease or Soc, just as long as it loved.

"Can we name him Scooby?" asked Two-Bit eagerly, eyebrows waving as he stepped forward to join Sodapop and the dog.

"No," Darry retorted, shaking his head stiffly. "We're not keeping him." Just what he'd need, one more mouth to feed. But he watched Ponyboy stare at the dog so intensely before them, both lost deep in thought. Darry rubbed the back of his head with his palm. Most definitely had he pulled a muscle. Darry consigned, "Just…fine…he can stay in the kitchen. But only this night." On that note, Ponyboy exited, to begin warming up the water for his shower. But on his way out, Darry could've sworn he saw a hint of a smile.

XXX

Nighttime overwhelmed all of them. By now Steve and Two-Bit had returned to their respective homes. Lying wide-awake in bed, Darry stared up at the ceiling. He could only sleep when he heard the rhythmic breathing next door. When he knew Ponyboy and Sodapop were safe and home. Only then could he begin to drift off.

Rolling to his side, Darry pressed his ear against his soft pillow. Hours from now he'd be awake again. Closely he listened to his brothers next door. No footsteps, just merely the sound of their chests rising and setting as they dreamt, snug in their bed, with the dog curled at their feet. Maybe Sodapop was dreaming of riding horses, or racing cars. Perhaps Ponyboy dreamt of escaping into the country, with Mom and Dad again. Darry would never know. Sometimes he'd hear the two talking, in mutated tones through the walls. He'd always wonder what they were saying. Part of him wished he could just go in and join his brothers, but he knew it wouldn't be the same. Turning onto his back, Darry let out a heavy sigh. This part was the hardest, managing to relax, letting go of the day so he could face the next. It took a lot for him to unwind. But that was none of their concern. All that really mattered deep down was that they were next door and everything was OK.

Smiling to only himself, Darry closed his eyes, and drifted off the way of wayward clouds.

_Post-script: If you've made it this far, I applaud you. The coming chapters won't be this lengthy._


End file.
